


never unwise

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Found Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 06:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17198309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Kirk makes the most terrifying leap of his life—for Spock.





	never unwise

 

 

“Is this thing on?” Kirk taps on the suspended microphone, and everyone around the bar winces at the feedback. Kirk grins. “Of course it is. Nice job on the sound system, Scotty.” He offers a salute to his Lieutenant Commander, who raises a meek little thumbs up in return.

It’s a good thing it’s only the senior crew who are left. Kirk doesn’t think he can do this with all of the Enterprise crew looking on; there’s only so much that liquid courage can do. He clears his throat. “Thank you, all, for staying. I know that it’s already the after party and that we all should be really going to bed right now, especially those of us who have Alpha shifts in the morning—”

“Which is why you should probably get to the point, Captain,” Uhura interjects wryly.

“Right.” He takes a deep breath. “Right, so. I’ve been actually wanting to. Uh. Do this. For a long time now.” He glances at McCoy, who looks halfway between genuine brotherly solidarity and wanting to crawl under the table in secondhand embarrassment. Despite looking slightly constipated—which, to be fair, is an expression McCoy always wears anyway—he gives Kirk an encouraging nod.

Kirk grins. “My best friend over there—Bones, you’re the best, I really love you—”

“I’m not the one you should be telling that to, kid,” McCoy gritted out, downing another shot for good measure.

Kirk doesn’t blame him; he suddenly feels like all the alcohol in his bloodstream has somehow miraculously evaporated with how _nervous_ he feels at the moment. “Right, right, I just meant—Bones over here suggested that I should do a grand gesture. So.” He spreads his hands sheepishly. “This is the grand gesture.”

Sulu wolf-whistles, grinning. “So get on with the show then, Captain!”

Chekov even begins enthusiastically clapping, and everyone else follows suit good-naturedly. Everyone, Kirk notes, except—

“Captain.”

The room suddenly shushes into anticipation as they turn to look at the Vulcan sitting front and centre.

Kirk swallows. “Yes, Mister Spock?”

Those beautifully angled brows furrow in confusion—and curiosity. “What are you doing?”

Kirk feels his heart rate speed up at the same time his throat constricts, and he suddenly finds it very hard to breathe.

“… Jim?” Spock questions, concern softening his sharp features, and _oh_ , the way his name sounds on those lips—divine, sinful, _tempting_ —prompts him to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak.”

There’s a collective gasp that susurrates around the room. Kirk can almost imagine the sound of a pin dropping in the shocked silence that follows.

Well. He has always been known for being direct, for following his gut, for not looking before leaping.

This is him leaping.

“And then suck my ex-lovers’ names out of my mouth, just to make sure they never come up in our conversations.”

He closes his eyes briefly and thinks of Edith, Miramanee, Janice, Gary, Kevin—and remembers the agony of mourning, the sting of betrayal, the grief of letting go. Somehow, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. And he can’t regret any of it. Not when it all made him into who he is now.

Not when it all led him here, in front of the person he hopes will be his last love—and his first forever.

“I’m going to be honest,” he declares. “I’m not really a love poet.” He tried, he really did, to compose a love poem as soon as McCoy suggested making a grand gesture. He quirks a smile to himself—who knew McCoy was the true hopeless romantic among all of them? “In fact, every time I try to write about love, my hands cramp…”

He raises his hands in front of him, palms out, and curls his fingers; his breath hitches when Spock looks utterly _mesmerised_.

“…just to show me how painful love can be. And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then, love takes a little more work than you planned. ”

He sees the way a somber shadow passes over McCoy’s features, and feels a twinge of sympathy; he knows his best friend well enough to understand that he must have been reminded of his own failed marriage with Jocelyn. He never really stopped loving her—even when she stopped loving him.

Which leads him to his next thought.

“See, I heard that love is blind, so,” he pauses, significantly, “I write all my poems in Braille.”

He grins at the resounding laughter it prompts around the room, diffusing the hushed tension. He softens, continuing, “and my poems are never actually finished, because true love is… endless.”

He looks up and catches Uhura’s spellbound gaze. “I always believed that real love is kind of like a supermodel,” he gestures at her, to which she rolls her eyes amiably even as Scott whoops in complete agreement, “before she’s airbrushed. It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.”

Uhura’s eyes soften into something akin to understanding, and Kirk looks away, his heart constricting in his chest.

Of course she understands. She once loved the same person, after all.

“See, I’m going to be honest. I’m not a love poet.” He flattens his palms over his chest. “But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees McCoy straightening in his seat. Uhura leans forward in anticipation, Sulu’s eyes widen in sudden realisation, Chekov seems to be holding his breath, and Scotty’s frantically adjusting the controls so that all other sounds become muted and the spotlight shines on stage.

The added dramatic effect isn’t really helping his nerves. Kirk closes his eyes and heaves his next breath. It’s now or never.

“I swear that my first poem…”

His eyes flutter open, and his gaze seeks the one whom he has already bound his heart to. Trembling, he smiles at his First Officer—his friend.

“It would be about you.”

Spock’s eyes widen.

“About how I loved you,” Kirk feels his smile wavering, “the same way that I learned how to ride a bike. _Scared._ ”

He thinks of the way he once jumped out in time before the Corvette crashes over the cliff, remembers the adrenaline rush filling him with equal parts exhilaration and horror at his first close brush with death—and realises that it’s nothing compared to the utter _terror_ at flaying himself vulnerable before Spock like this.

“But reckless. With no training wheels or elbow pads, so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.”

He can still remember the way Spock’s fingers had wrapped like steel chains around his neck, the helm’s controls digging in his back, the physical pain infinitesimal compared to the sheer outpouring of _agony_ that was bleeding into him through Spock’s touch telepathy as he had mourned the loss of his mother, his people, his planet—his very sense of _self_.

The intensity was unlike anything Kirk had ever experienced, unlike anything he could even _conceive_. It wasn’t just the sheer weight of emotion that took his breath away, but the _depth_ of it. Even then, as he watched Spock resign his commission and advance Kirk to his very first stint as Captain of the Enterprise, he had been _transfixed_ , helplessly drawn to how deeply Spock could feel.

How deeply he could _love._

He wanted, _craved_ so badly, to be the recipient of that inexhaustible love—and to return it a thousandfold.

“You see, I’m not really a love poet,” Kirk helplessly shrugs. “But if I was, I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window.”

Scott quirks an amused grin at him, and Kirk finds himself blushing, recalling all the times his Chief Engineer had to beam him back with relatively minor injuries even on surprisingly benign away missions—because he was too distracted by his First Officer.

In those survey missions of first contact, he would watch the way Spock would be completely enamoured by the readings on his tricorder as he’d examine new flora and fauna together with a more outwardly excited Sulu. He would look on as Spock would enter temples and mausoleums with reverent respect, recording the ancient writings on the walls and conversing with the more welcoming locals together with a diplomatic and quick-witted Uhura. Nightfall would come, and his gaze would be arrested by how Spock would quietly observe the position of the heavenly bodies and update their star-mapping charts with an enthusiastic and starstruck Chekov.

And as his Chief Medical Officer would tend to his injuries _yet again—_ bedside manner gruffly affectionate and a lot less gentle than was warranted—McCoy would wryly tell Kirk how he looked exactly the way Spock did with each fascinating discovery.

Completely, utterly, irrevocably in love.

“You see, I’ve written like a million poems,” Kirk declares, laughter blooming in his chest as Spock predictably raises an eyebrow at his hyperbole, completely unaware of the countless drafts Kirk tried to write before completely giving up in exasperation and just winging it, like he always does—and what he’s actually best at. “Hoping that somehow, maybe someway, you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me.”

He sees the way Sulu suddenly looks away, the fingers of his right hand shakily tracing the ring on his left, and Kirk _aches_ for him. Kirk fiercely loves his crew like family and he knows without a doubt that they all feel the same way, but he also wishes with equal fervour that doing what they love and living the dream on the Enterprise doesn’t have to come with such hard sacrifices.

He would try to make it better as best as he could: he would approve each form that detailed how Sulu had personally named each new flower he discovered after Demora; he would allow the multiple calls Sulu would make to Ben back at Yorktown, smiling gently at the way Sulu’s eyes would be suspiciously glistening every time he’d return to his shift after each transmission.

And then one day, curiosity getting the best of him at Spock’s prolonged shifts in the science labs, he discovered that his ingenious Science Officer had somehow found a way to preserve samples of the Demora flowers to send back to Yorktown.

Everyday, Kirk doesn’t think it’s still possible to love Spock any more than he already does. And everyday, Spock continuous to prove him wrong.

He had never loved Spock as much as he did when those rigid Vulcan features softened into a smile at Demora’s transmission, thanking her Uncle Spock ebulliently for the flowers.

“Because if you were here,” he rasps, heart so full he feels like his chest won’t be able to contain it, “right now… I would massage your back until your skin sings songs your lips don’t even know the words to.”

The ardent words make Spock flush green from his neck to the tips of his ears, and Kirk has to quell the sudden urge to mark the viridescent skin with teeth and tongue. His love for Spock is matched in ferocity with his lust for him, and it often feels _dangerous_ how he can _want_ someone like this: intense and all-consuming, like the heat of the Vulcan sun searing his skin when he jumped.

It’s apt, the metaphor of his memory of Vulcan—the first and only time, and entirely unforgettable after that—in falling for Spock _._

He can never want anyone the same way again.

“Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name,” he breathes, and isn’t this the most terrifying leap of all, this declaration of what he truly wants? For Spock to belong to him—completely, exclusively, permanently?

“And you smile,” he trembles, “like the Pacific Ocean.”

He remembers a shining memory of shore leave on Earth, when the senior crew had taken an excursion to the beach near Sulu’s hometown, with Demora Sulu having found an instant best friend in Joanna McCoy. Spock, like a ruffled kitten, absolutely _loathed_ water, but could never say no to twin choruses of _please Uncle Spock,_ and Kirk had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning at the discovery that Spock’s Achilles’ heel were his favourite goddaughters.

As a compromise, Spock had settled himself safely on the beach, watching over Demora and Joanna happily wading in the water nearby. Kirk had wanted to accompany him, but was soon dunked into the water by a laughing Chekov, and he couldn’t even call him out for insubordination because they weren’t on duty, so naturally, being the master strategist and tactician he was, he soon involved everyone else in an all out water war.

Eventually, Kirk had resurfaced from the waves, bone tired but still bubbling with residual laughter, chest tight with joy and love for his found family. He had turned to look back at the beach where they had left a particular family member behind—and his breath caught.

Spock was leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, face upturned to the sky. Perhaps thinking everyone else was too busy to notice him, Spock had allowed the most peaceful expression Kirk had ever seen to play over his features as he smiled, soaking up the sun and the sand the way he never could again in Vulcan.

He had been too faraway at the time—too tongue-tied with all the emotions that erupted within him—but now Kirk is finally able to give voice to what his deepest desire was back then.

“I want to drink the sunlight in your skin.”

Spock is looking at him now like nothing else in the universe exists but the two of them, his gaze as deep as the ocean and as scorching as the sun. Kirk is drowning in him, _burning_ for him. “If I was a love poet,” he breathes, “I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful, even on days when everything around you is ugly.”

As intimately acquainted as he was with the ugliness of death—so many deaths that no one wanted to face as they’d look the other way, making him want to crawl out of his own skin in righteous _anger_ —Kirk had known, instinctively, that he shouldn’t be the one to face the loved ones left behind.

So whenever he would report back to Starfleet, fiercely elaborating in excruciating detail every single contribution his dead crewmen and women had given to the Federation, refusing to allow those in the Admiralty to look away from the screen, refusing to let _any_ of them forget… Spock would be the one to quietly make the calls families back home had been fearing every moment of their lives.

Spock would be the one to listen as their grief would overflow through their pained cries and terrible screams, would always allow himself to be the target of all the anger and the blame, offering neither denial nor defence, _I grieve with thee_ quietly pronounced as he instead willingly carried it all with them, _for_ them.

And when all the fight would finally drain out of Kirk as his transmission to Starfleet would inevitably come to a close, he’d stumble into medbay to check on one stubborn doctor who had insisted on performing all the autopsy himself… and Kirk would find Spock already there. Kirk would hover out of sight, watching as Spock would drape a blanket over an exhausted and defeated McCoy, Vulcan telepathy more potent yet infinitely gentler than a hypospray as he’d press his fingertips to McCoy’s temples and murmur: _Sleep, Leonard—I promised Joanna I would keep you safe, too._

The Vulcan heart, Kirk realised then, must also be three times the strength of the human heart, for it to have the capacity to carry so much sorrow and yet still have so much love in excess to give.

He wants Spock to know that he doesn’t anymore have to carry all of it alone.

“I’d write about your eyelashes,” Kirk declares softly, “and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.”

Kirk would watch with a wistful smile as Spock and Uhura would sometimes have impromptu performances in the mess hall; Spock’s dextrous hands would coax ethereal music from his Vulcan lyre as Uhura would serenade an awestruck audience with her melodious voice. Kirk would honestly feel no bitterness or jealousy, only a lingering guilt in seeing how Spock and Uhura were in actuality very nearly perfect for each other. Both scarily smart, talented with languages and diplomacy, and remarkably cool under pressure, they had been looked up to as the Enterprise power couple for so long by Starfleet itself.

The guilt Kirk would feel came from knowing that he had a lot to live up to, after Uhura. She and Spock had been compatible in nearly every way except for one crucial factor—which, for Spock, had also been a matter of life and death, once Kirk finally learned about _pon farr._

Kirk knows that Uhura and Spock truly love each other deeply and unconditionally: always have, and always will. The two of them had simply discovered, in the process of their relationship, one more thing they had in common that would make a permanent bond between them not only inadvisable, but illogical.

It had been the plot twist of the century, Kirk’s lips twitch in amusement, for all of them to discover that Uhura and Spock were both gay.

He laughs when he sees Uhura flapping her hands at him, motioning impatiently for him to go on, and he shuffles his feet, ducking his head and looking up at Spock with a coy, half-lidded gaze. “If I was a love poet, I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture,” he admits shyly, “every time I hear the vibration in your voice.”

The reason why the Enterprise has the best navigational system in the entire Federation, Kirk muses, is largely due to Lieutenant Commander Scott’s constant optimal upgrades. And the reason why Kirk’s mad genius of a Chief Engineer always manages to get his way is because he’s unanimously backed by two of his most brilliant protégés, and while Kirk is mostly immune to Chekov’s pleading puppy-dog eyes and to Jaylah’s threatening glare, Kirk has absolutely no chance against all three of them when they’re resoundingly supported by his stubbornly persuasive First Officer.

Both Scott and Chekov would look halfway in love with Spock as they’d watch him state his own convincing case in support of the Engineering division, delivering clever arguments in a coolly logical manner. Hypnotised, Kirk would end up signing the forms Scott had prepared, and he’d find himself blinking in confusion as his very happy Chief Engineer would hand them over to his very amused Communications Officer to send back to Starfleet, and Kirk would only realise just then that he had once again approved _more_ provisions and deliveries for Scott’s insane technological refits.

His smug First Officer would then tilt his head in approval and calmly walk back to his station like nothing monumental had happened; Jaylah would smirk knowingly at Kirk before trailing after Scott and Chekov; and Kirk could only raise his gaze to the ceiling and sigh heavily in bemusement, grudgingly conceding that his _one_ primary weakness was that he really, _really_ couldn’t say no to Spock.

He glares without heat at Chekov when he stifles a snicker, and the young Ensign nods at him encouragingly to continue. Kirk looks sheepishly back at Spock, whose normally austere eyes are crinkling with suppressed mirth.“So whenever I see your name on the caller ID, my heart—”

He presses a hand against the hammering inside his ribs, internally berating his heart _not yet_ as it seems already primed to burst through his chest, leap straight into Spock’s hands, and stay there forever—without Spock’s consent. “It plays hopscotch inside of my chest,” he chuckles nervously. “It climbs onto my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again.”

It had hit him without preface or warning on a mundane night towards the end of their first five-year mission. He had looked across the chessboard at Spock, who had his fingers steepled against his lips as he contemplated his next move, and Kirk was suddenly overcome with flashes of memory: Chekov’s utterly smitten expression as he’d watch Jaylah work on the warp core; Christine Chapel staring longingly at Uhura as she’d pass by the hallway with Spock; Carol Marcus sidling just a little bit closer each time she’d have lunch with McCoy; the mirror looks of devotion and affection on the Sulus’ faces whenever Ben would appear onscreen before Hikaru; Demora and Joanna refusing to let go of each other’s hands each time they’d be together.

Kirk had felt like the breath was punched out of his lungs at the mind-boggling epiphany that he was looking at Spock in the exact same way. Hell, he realised with a rising wave of panic, he looked at Spock like that _all the time._

As if he could sense Kirk silently freaking out, Spock had looked up at him and hesitantly asked, _Jim?_

And _oh,_ Kirk had to repress a delighted shiver at how his name sounded so right, so _delectable_ on Spock’s mouth, and he blurted out the first question that came to his mind at Spock’s intensifying look of concern.

_Is it worth it—being emotionally compromised?_

Spock had blinked at him in swiftly concealed surprise. _Clarify._

Kirk had made a vague, all-encompassing gesture with his hands. _You know, when you’re a commanding officer and you have your ship and your crew to take care of. When you have so many people to look after and so many responsibilities to fulfil, do you think it’s a good idea to be… well… distracted?_

Spock’s eyebrows had slanted in confusion. _By what?_

Kirk had swallowed, the truth a jagged pill against his throat. … _Love._

Spock had been quiet for a long time after that. He merely looked back down at their game and, after a moment of consideration, moved his queen across the board. Swallowing back a bile of disappointment—Kirk didn’t know what he was expecting, really—he had reached forward unthinkingly to make his next move.

_Life aboard a starship can be… difficult._

His hand had frozen over his king; Kirk stared at Spock as he quietly elaborated.

_Those of us in service are all isolated from our home planets for an indeterminable length of time. In emergency situations, that duration is necessarily extended, and it can cause us to miss out on numerous milestones our loved ones will have made without us. Our missions can be monotonous and repetitive, yet they can also be dangerous, and often we are forced to make difficult decisions, go through tremendous sacrifices, and deal with unspeakable loss._

Kirk had been startled when Spock suddenly stood up and walked over to his desk at the corner of his quarters. Kirk had peered over Spock’s shoulder as he opened his drawer and took out what looked to be a photograph. Even though he wasn’t as well-versed in the language as Uhura, Kirk had recognised the elegant Vulcan script decorating the frame in gold.

 _It would not be truthful of me to say that I had never considered leaving Starfleet,_ Spock had murmured as his fingers traced the frame with reverence. _Yet each time I am tempted to leave, I am reminded of the reasons why I stay._

Kirk had held his breath as Spock slowly sat back down across from him. Then, with a gentle smile, Spock had set the photograph in front of Kirk and turned it to face him. Kirk looked down at it—and his heart leapt to his throat.

 _Jim,_ Spock had softly spoken. _You ask me if love is worth it amidst duty and sacrifice. When it is difficult to live… it is imperative to remember who you are living for._

It was a picture of them—the entire Enterprise senior crew—twenty years into the future. He instinctively knew, even without Spock explaining it, that it must have been bequeathed to him by Ambassador Spock before he passed away.

_What is necessary… is never unwise._

Tears had sprung into Kirk’s eyes without his bidding, and his throat felt too tight with emotion to speak. Spock seemed to understand nevertheless, and had reached over to lay his hand over Kirk’s; Kirk turned his palm up, threaded his fingers through Spock’s, and held on tightly.

He vowed, right then and there, that he was never, _ever_ letting go.

 _Love,_ Spock had whispered, _is always worth it._

“And some days,” Kirk says now, feeling his heart constrict at the way Spock is looking at him as if, even after all their years of exploring the universe together, he is still the most beautiful thing Spock has ever seen. “I want to swallow stacks of your pictures… just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer.”

His gaze falls on the necklace adorning Spock’s neck and remembers how it had kept Ambassador Spock company for nearly a century.He remembers pressing his hand against the glass chamber as he had lain there dying, thinking that it was a good way to go after all, because in a roundabout way, he still got his dearest wish: to spend the rest of his life with Spock.

He remembers seeing Spock fall into pieces because of him, when even the death of his mother and the loss of his planet couldn’t break him. He remembers thinking in horror, seconds before he heaved his last breath, that he couldn’t die like this: his legacy to Spock being that of pain. The next thing he knew, he had gasped the first breath of his second life, and he had immediately sought out Spock in both apology and promise to never cause him pain ever again.

 _Remember who you are living for,_ were Spock’s unforgettable words that fateful night; Kirk looks at the necklace resting protectively over Spock now, carrying nearly thirty years of happiness and nearly one hundred years of loneliness, and Kirk knows that no matter what universe, he will always, _always_ find a way to come back home to Spock.

He will never let him be alone again.

“I swear,” Kirk says softly, “I’m not a love poet. But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love, my first poem… it would be about you.”

He steps forward, the deafening roar of his heart making his movements clumsy as he bumps against the microphone. “Because I want to be your people’s stunt man,” he declares.

Something shutters in Spock’s gaze then, and this close Kirk can see the way Spock’s lower lip is trembling as his control over his emotions is slipping. It makes Kirk desperately want to go back in time, walk into the Vulcan Science Academy, stand in solidarity next to Spock, raise his hand in a _ta’al,_ and proclaim _live long and fuck you_ to the xenophobic people who made the best and wisest and _kindest_ being Kirk has ever known feel like he was unwanted— _unloved_.

“I want to do everything they never had the courage to do, like… trust you.”

It takes a brave kind of love to fight for someone, the way Amanda Grayson left behind everything she had ever known and fought every prejudice she had ever faced just to be with Sarek, proving that love does not discriminate and that it can never, ever be a weakness.

It takes a noble kind of love to die for someone, the way George Kirk’s no-win scenario was a universe without Winona, and he readily traded his life for the woman he loved beyond duty, beyond all measure, proving that love can overcome even the madness of war and genocide.

And it takes a strong kind of love to live for someone, the way Ambassador Spock had carried the memory of Admiral Kirk all those lonely years until they could meet again, proving that love defies even destiny, that even death cannot part two people who will do everything in their power to be together—and damn the consequences.

Spock is looking up at him with something akin to painful desperation and wide-eyed _hope_ , and Kirk smiles at him tremblingly.

He remembers the Kobayashi Maru, remembers breaking the Prime Directive as he furiously refuses to let Spock die, remembers Khan’s blood running through in his veins and prolonging his life beyond that of a normal human being and thinks… it takes the love of one James Tiberius Kirk to fight, die, live, and _cheat_ for the one he loves.

“Because I swear when our lips touch,” Kirk whispers, “I can taste the next sixty years of my life.”

Uhura claps her hands over her mouth, Chekov shifts restlessly in his seat, Sulu is dangerously close to tears, Scott looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown, and McCoy, unable to take it anymore, yells: “Damn it, you green-blooded hobgoblin, _say_ something!”

It seems to snap Spock out of his stupor. He stands up, straightening his shirt the way he did that very first time Kirk saw him at the academic tribunal and had to reassess his previous disbelief in love at first sight. Kirk’s heart kicks into overdrive when Spock steps onto the stage with him, and he has to forcefully command his feet to stay put and _not run away._

“Lately, I have been thinking,” Spock intones, “about who I want to love, and how I want to love, and why I want to love the way I want to love, and what I need to learn to love that way, and who I need to become the kind of love I want to be.”

Kirk’s hammering heart seems to be overcompensating for the way his lungs adamantly refuse to work, and he has to remind himself to _breathe_.

“And when I break it all down,” Spock murmurs as he carefully steps forward, “when I whittle it into a single breath, it essentially comes out like this.”

Spock has reached the microphone, and even though his voice is soft, it reverberates all around the room as he looks into Kirk’s eyes and declares:

“I want to be your favourite hiding place. The place you can put everything you need to survive: every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe.”

Kirk’s eyes begins to blur with the telltale pinprick of happy tears, and through his hazy vision he sees Spock raise his hand, close three of his fingers, and hold up his index and middle fingers in an open offer of the _ozh’esta._

“Jim,” Spock whispers, “ _t’hy’la._ I will keep you safe.”

Kirk laughs through his tears and caresses Spock’s fingers with his own as Spock leans his forehead against Kirk’s. They stand there on stage under the hot glare of the spotlight, holding each other and just breathing each other in as Uhura squeals through her fingers, Chekov punches the air with a triumphant shout, Sulu absolutely _sobs_ , and McCoy slumps in his seat in profound _relief_.

And Scott… just looks completely confounded as he timidly speaks up.

“So… was that a yes to the Captain’s marriage proposal?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kirk's proposal is from "If I Was A Love Poet" by Rudy Francisco. 
> 
> Spock's response is from "Bone Burying" by Andrea Gibson.
> 
> Happy holidays, Star Trek fandom. This is my gift and tribute to you all. :)


End file.
